Starlit Night
by marmoki
Summary: The true origin of General Winter, as seen through his own eyes. Based on early Russian history. K for implications of gore and death. Oneshot.


**Marmoki's Corner: Hey guys, I haven't updated in forever, so I'd like to make up with this oneshot.**

**Here's an alternate story of General Winter's past. I've never seen him as an evil villain like other fanfic writers like to paint him, so here he is, all benevolent and... not evil-like. Tiny bit of angst here and there.  
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**Enjoy!**

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><p>Novgorod crouched in the undergrowth, a brief flash of sunlight dappling his fur coat. He narrowed his eyes at his target, a young roe buck with a slightly deformed leg that had gotten separated from its herd. The animal appeared to be completely oblivious, browsing peacefully in the clearing, but the man- no, Place- knew it would bolt at the mere snap of a twig. Thus he remained stock-still, not bothering to move a limb or reach up to scratch his bearded chin.<p>

The bow he clutched in one hand was a beautiful weapon, made of an unknown wood, polished smooth and deadlier than the sharpest spear. This was the bow Novgorod raised to shoulder height, pointing it directly at the deer's exposed chest area.

A crunch resounded behind him, and Novgorod cursed as the sound made him jump and misfire. The feather-tipped arrow flew haphazardly and buried itself deep into the heart of a poplar tree. The terrified buck raised its head and fled, melting into the darkness of the surrounding forest. He frowned at the three silhouetted figures that had caused the noise. His sons, all with the physical appearances of athletic young Slavic men, emerged from the surrounding vegetation and smiled awkwardly at their father. That changed, though, as they quickly shrank under his gaze.

The oldest Place jabbed a finger at the area where the buck had been, and silently proceeded to make a series of obscene hand gestures that clearly indicated his disapproval. The younger men understood immediately, and they expressed their sincere apologies. It looked like supper would have to wait.

Novgorod was indeed frustrated with his boys; his daughter was at home, along with his wife, the personification of Kiev Rus'. The older woman had just borne a fourth son several weeks before. With so many mouths to feed, their clumsiness would be no good. The ragtag troupe had been hunting for days, tracking the deer since sunrise; the sun was already at its highest and brightest in the sky. They would have to start over. Again.

His oldest son Kolomna interrupted his train of thought and pointed at an indiscernible curl of smoke in the sky. It was trailing from a small village in the distance, barely a mile away. For the tired and hungry men, village meant people, a market, and a market meant consumable goods to buy, particularly food. Novgorod nodded in approval, and the four eagerly set off towards the tiny hamlet.

Only five or so minutes of walking later, Novgorod's second son Rostov stopped in his tracks and refused to walk further. When his father and brothers looked at him quizzically, Rostov quietly pointed out that the amount of smoke emanating from the village was much larger than normal. (They had not noticed before, as the group had been too far away to notice the massive black plumes.) A small community of people would not need to create that much fire, even if the women were all cooking at the same time. From that, he concluded, the village was probably under attack, and the invaders were burning everything down.

Rostov always had had a good sense of foreboding, so soon, everyone agreed to pass over the village and turn back where they had come from. But they had only turned their backs when the Places heard a series of battle cries, followed by terrified screams. Though all of them had neither been in close combat nor encountered many foreign visitors, they recognized the unusual barbarian tongue immediately. Mongols.

The youngest of the three adult sons, Ryazan, eagerly suggested going back to fight the invaders. Novgorod, knowing Ryazan to be the most bellicose his scions, frowned and shook his head at the ludicrous idea. He knew that their kind were not as vulnerable to death as humans, but still had their physical weaknesses. And if the rumors he had heard about the Mongols were true, about the trail of death and destruction they had blazed across the former Song Dynasty in the south, he and his family would be in as much danger as the average mortals.

We must turn back immediately, he argued. We need to go back home and take your mother and siblings away from here as far as possible. But the words had hardly escaped his lips before Rostov let out a horrified scream and pointed back towards the hamlet. In a flash, the mounted Mongol archers were upon them.

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><p>Novgorod woke up much, much later, feeling sick and dizzy. Cloth had been wrapped round his head, which was throbbing horribly. His arms and one leg was also bandaged. Though his vision was fuzzy, he judged his familiar surroundings and realized he was home, lying in his makeshift wooden bed. Kiev Rus' sat next to him, her beautiful, concerned face hovering protectively over his.<p>

She asked if he was alright. He replied with a groan. She quickly explained what had happened- the archers had crept up on them, attacked them at their most negligent moment. Kiev, their daughter, had secretly been following them (hoping to learn to hunt herself) when she saw the ambush and ran a literal marathon back to fetch her mother. By the time both of them had arrived with their limited medical supplies, the Mongols were gone, and the resulting damage was irreversible.

Although he was in much pain, Novgorod inquired what had happened in the region. Her answer disturbed him—he had been sleeping for days, weeks, probably. The Mongols had poured in so suddenly, destroying and ransacking dozens of Russian cities. He had been lucky; Novgorod had not been invaded, though he as a person had suffered quite a beating.

He was reminded of his sons. When he asked about them and how they were recovering, Kiev Rus' began to cry.

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><p>It is here when Novgorod's memories end and his present life begins.<p>

Novgorod now stands in the indiscernible mess of weeds and wild grass that makes up his front yard, staring at three freshly dug and filled graves. He has no tears to shed, knowing that it was God who had called his sons back home. But what he cannot understand is why God would send the Mongol curse to his people. What had they done wrong? How could they have sinned?

He hears footsteps and turns around. Kiev Rus' comes to his side, holding a tightly wrapped bundle. The pile of ragged blankets immediately begins to shake and wail, and Novgorod reluctantly gives into Rus's urgings and takes the bawling child into his own, still-aching arms. There, for the first time, the Place gazes fully on the face of his youngest and last son.

Despite his grief, Novgorod cannot help but swell with pride. The baby boy is the only one of his children who has inherited his eye color- a pure, pale violet. The baby immediately stops crying when he sees his father, and coos happily, reaching chubby arms towards the adult Place. For the first time in a long time, Novgorod laughs, gently bouncing his gurgling son in his arms.

The little family stays like this for a long time, huddled together in front of the three sepulchers. Finally, Kiev Rus' touches his shoulder (she is pregnant again, despite the fact the new child had not been conceived naturally) and tells him to come back to the house with her, because the morning meal is ready and it will get cold after awhile. He follows her slowly, all while smiling down at the tiny infant. He finally speaks.

"Welcome to the world, my Moskva."

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><p>Many, many years later, it is the twilight of the Golden Horde. Novgorod can feel it in his bones. He limps out on a starlit night while his wife and children sleep in their little home (the injury sustained from the archer attack never quite healed) and stares up at the clear sky. It is the most beautiful painting by far- not even the greatest of Italian masters could capture the wonder of swirling galaxies and gleaming white moons that shine before him.<p>

Novgorod feels sick. He has been for days. Kiev Rus' knows nothing about his poor physical condition, and neither does little Kiev, his daughter. Moskva is still too young to understand, and his newborn daughter, still unnamed, even less.

He doesn't know why he suddenly feels so ill. Perhaps it is the end of his reign, like hundreds of his kind before him. His city remains strong and powerful, untouched by the unusual weakness of its representative Place. But Novgorod knows that the twilight of the Mongols will mark his end as well.

The stars blur, and he drops his makeshift crane to fall to the ground.

Kiev Rus' and the children run up behind him, crying out in anguish.

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><p>It was all so sudden. Novgorod felt pain, a lot of pain, then darkness. He has woken up and is now standing in front of what were either the pearly gates or the pits of doom. He doesn't feel frightened or surprised. This must be the afterlife, he mused.<p>

Shadows rise around him, twisting into the shapes of humans- the great Empires. He recognizes some of them from old Places' tales- Macedonia, Egypt, Rome. They crowd around him, scrutinize him closely, and nod in approval.

"Welcome," says Rome. "We are happy you are here."

Through the gates/pits, Novgorod can see his three sons, watching him and waving, smiling excitedly. He gives them a weak grin and holds up a hand in their direction. But they are not the primary thought on his mind.

His first words in Paradise are, "Will I see my family again?"

The Empires exchange worried looks. Egypt shakes her head.

"Not until they themselves die and come here."

Perhaps he could wait for his wife and other children; after all, he had his sons here. But Novgorod suddenly thinks of his only surviving son, the boy with his violet eyes. He is struck by a desire to see him grow up. To see him become a man.

"But what if I don't want to stay? What if I want to go back and see them again?" He blurts out.

Everyone is taken aback—even Kolomna, Rostov, and Ryazan look worried. One figure steps out of the crowd, head held tall and proud. He is the first of the Places. Sumer. Novgorod, recognizing him, bows briefly in respect.

"I'm afraid coming back to life is not possible for our kind," the older Place explains. "But I can offer you another option, though I must tell you no Place has ever taken it."

"Tell me."

"You may manifest yourself in another form. You will not become human or Place, but a sort of fabulous being that will walk the Earth for as long as the individual you Observe exists."

"Observing? What is Observing?"

"You must pick someone, one person only, you want to watch over, much like a guardian spirit or angel," Sumer replies. "You will exist for as long as that man or woman does. After that, you may return to Paradise. I stress the word _may_."

Novgorod nodded, holding back tears. "I want to Observe my son. I want to watch over him, protect him. I cannot let what happened to my other boys happen to him."

"I understand your concern, Novgorod, but there are many problems with returning to Earth like this," Sumer said. "For one, you will be in a physical form completely unrecognizable to your family. You will become a destructive manifestation of nature that will cause chaos wherever you walk. Finally, your voice will be taken away from you. You will never be able to tell your son you are his father."

The miserable Place, now kneeling on the floor, knew what he was about to do was a selfish and despicable act. "I understand the consequences and accept."

The Empires gasped and stepped back. Sumer raised his eyes to the ceiling and solemnly proclaimed, "From this moment forward, Novgorod, you are no longer a Place. Since you are from the freezing realms of the North, you will become a personification of the chilling winter, bringing cold and gloom to all kingdoms. Whatever you touch will become as cold as snow, and your breath alone will destroy the livelihood of entire cities. From now on, you will be called General Winter, and will be feared by person and Place alike. May the gods have mercy on your soul when your time is done."

The wind blew shrilly in his ears as the images of Sumer and the other Empires dissipated. He could feel his limbs freezing into the ground, snowstorms emerging from his frantic breathing. The image that imprinted most in Novgorod's mind- now General Winter's mind- before he returned to Earth was that of his sons, slamming themselves against the gates, crying and screaming his name.

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><p>Nearly a thousand years later, General Winter hovers outside a window, frosting the glass with his breath and watching his fully grown son enter the conference room, hand-in-hand with his lover while greeting his fellow Places-no, Nations- as he passed.<p>

Although centuries have gone by, the former Place still feels a rush of pride every time he sees his son smiling and laughing, which is unfortunately not often. General Winter knows he is guilty for Moskva's -Russia's! His name was Russia now!- constant state of gloom. But he wants to let his son know he loves him- how else is he supposed to express his affection other than by coming to his home every year?

But overall, through all the years of heartbreak, through the plagues, and famine, war and insanity, he's proud. Proud of what Russia has accomplished. His fourth son has not disappointed him a bit. He deserved the richest of awards, those beyond the material wealth of gold and silver. Sunshine, maybe. Good friends. A warm, starry night shared with those he loved the most.

Perhaps General Winter would have to take a break from freezing Russia this year, if only to make his son smile again. He would take a trip to, say, Scandinavia instead and greet the annoying Nordics who had been giving Russia headaches. He'd give that Matthias boy, one Winter found particularly irritating, a good punch in the face, even if it meant freezing the Dane's lips off.

Two teardrop-shaped icicles fall out of the Place's eyes as he abandons the window, flying away from Moscow towards the west. He leaves behind a little message, scrawled into the frost with hasty Cyrillic.

_ See you later, Vanya._

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><p>Ivan looked upwards just as General Winter left.<p>

"Did you hear something?" He asked his lover.

"No, I didn't. Come on, Vanya, it's karaoke night, and you're a good singer! Let's go!"

Skeptical and initially resisting his beloved's impatient arm tugging, Ivan looked back where he had heard the strange noise and noticed a tiny message written onto the window. After reading it, he smiled slightly to himself as he was dragged into a room other Nations were pouring into.

"Have a good time, General Winter, and see you next year," he said under his breath.

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><p><strong>AN: IN A NUTSHELL: GENERAL WINTER=RUSSIA'S PAPPY. Also, he can't write to Ivan that "he is his father" because he freezes and snaps every pencil/pen/feather quill he uses. Which is even worse if he tries using a keyboard. **

**Come to think of it, I suggest playing the clip of Darth Vader going "Luke, I am your father" on loop while reading this. Not that it'll help you concentrate, but I think it would be appropriate. :P  
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**Not much historical stuff needed. Though you may want to know that Kolomna, Rostov, and Ryazan were all cities burned down and ransacked by the Mongols when they invaded what is now Russia in 1223. There were many, many more cities, but I don't feel like giving Ivan twenty more brothers. **

**And yes, I know Kiev Rus was the polity while Novgorod was only a city. Hey, how was she supposed to have direct descendants? Asexual reproduction? :/**

**If you've made it all the way down here, I salute you. -salutes- Critique is greatly welcomed! R&R, please!  
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